


and all those love lines are taking shape

by impulsemomentum



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Polyamory, all frenchies have def fucked each other at some point, and having people on tour grounds him, like really bad ocd, nico has ocd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 16:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16043831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulsemomentum/pseuds/impulsemomentum
Summary: “Allô?” He murmurs sleepily.“I’m retiring.” Julien’s voice comes through the speaker, slightly crackly.Beside him, Pierre snuffles in his sleep, rustling the bedsheets, and Nico feels his world abruptly shatter like one of Benoit’s racquets.





	and all those love lines are taking shape

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Nico has certain routines that he follows on and off the court, which he has openly addressed in interviews. I am not a mental health professional, and definitely not well-educated on OCD, so I’m not trying to voodoo doctor diagnose him or anything. I am not in a position to speculate on whether he has OCD or not, and this fic is not a confirmation that he does or does not!
> 
> title is from little light - lewis watson

 

> [Nico Arranging Phones](https://mobile.twitter.com/mahutenbosch/status/1018016174930444289?s=21)
> 
>  

The phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand, and it is grabbed in an irritated manner. He checks the time; it’s 2am.

 

“Allô?” He murmurs sleepily.

 

“I’m retiring.” Julien’s voice comes through the speaker, slightly crackly.

 

Beside him, Pierre snuffles in his sleep, rustling the bedsheets, and Nico feels his world abruptly shatter like one of Benoit’s racquets.

 

———

 

Nico knows that what he has isn’t normal. His parents took him to the doctors when he was eight. He accidentally scraped one knee against the tennis court, and scraped the other one too because he felt uneven. They said it was OCD; nothing to do but try and manage the anxiety with medication, and schedule psychiatrist appointments.

 

He’s 36 now. He can’t take medication that is expressly forbidden by the ITF, and his constant travel makes seeing a consistent psychiatrist basically impossible. Still, he finds ways to manage.

 

———

 

Nico tries to spend every weekend with Virginie and Natanel, at least through video calls. When the tour moves to France, or when he has a week off, he spends the whole time with them in Boulogne-Billancourt, play-fighting with Natanel and pressing soft kisses onto Virginie’s forehead.

 

One morning, somewhere in between Wimbledon and the next big adventure, Nico wakes to sunlight flooding the bedroom, and the rich scent of coffee. He folds a corner of the blanket, gets out, and carefully folds it back. From then on, it’s a set of carefully arranged routines in the bathroom, and then he pads downstairs to the kitchen, where Virginie stands with her back to him, buttering toast.

 

Nico wraps his arms around her, pressing a fond kiss on the top of her head. “Morning, ma chérie.”

 

“Nico.” Virginie turns her head, smiling fondly. “How did you sleep?”

 

“Good, but I woke up without my angel next to me,” He teases. “Turns out she was downstairs, making my coffee.”

 

“Your coffee?” Virginie jokes back, turning to face him fully. They both know that these are set routines, her waking earlier and preparing coffee, and Nico drinking tea instead because coffee gets him too anxious. “Then maybe I’ll drink the tea today.”

 

Nico holds his hands up in mock-surrender. “Got it, got it, I’ll leave you be.”

 

Much later, after Natanel is woken up (not without much fuss) and sent off to school, Nico sits at the kitchen counter, watching Virginie clean up the mess left from breakfast.

 

“Is it ever too much for you?” He asks quietly. They both know what he’s talking about.

 

Virginie turns to him, and one corner of her mouth quirks slightly. “I knew what I was facing when I married you, you idiot. Why the doubt now?”

 

“So you don’t mind?” He asks, fiddling with a mug and avoiding her eyes. “That...”

 

He looks up as she sits down across from him, taking the mug away gently. “That you’re with other people, too?” She asks, placing her hand on his. “I know what you need, Nico. Without us to ground you, it’d be impossible for you to manage on tour.”

 

“I do love you.” Nico says earnestly, gripping her hand. “I do, I swear.”

 

“I know.” She smiles at him, her eyes crinkling. “And you love Benoit too, and Pierre-Hugues, and Julien. You can love more than one person, because you’re you.”

 

“Do you?” He asks. “Love more than one person?”

 

“No one as much as you and Natanel.” She says, softly. “But I will take whatever you can give me, and this is enough for me.”

 

Nico draws her into a kiss, not fervently, but almost to reassure them both. Virginie smells like cinnamon spice, and her mouth is soft, familiar. He misses this when he’s jetting around the world on tour, misses the smell of coffee in the morning and Natanel’s endless hugs. He thinks about what it would be like without someone else with him, and feels the familiar frissons of dread trail up his torso.

 

———

 

Where Virginie is a constant soothing presence by his side, Benoit is more like a mercurial puppy, sickeningly adorable one second and a thorn in his side the next. Nico has his routines with him, too. During the Davis Cup semifinal, when Pierre and Julien are with their own partners, Nico inevitably answers a knock on his hotel room door to Benoit, one eyebrow cocked suggestively and a stack of racquets in one hand.

 

“Can you regrip my racquets?” After Nico lets him in, Benoit murmurs seductively, smiling wide enough to show even through his beard. “I swear I can do them myself, but they look so much better when you do it.”

 

“Is that all you’re here for?” Nico pulls him close enough to feel hair scratch at his face. “Do I look like a stringer to you?”

 

“Of course not, Nico.” Benoit’s eyes soften. “Will you, though? Please? I promise I’ll make it worth it.” He bends his head to mouth at Nico’s earlobe, making him shiver.

 

“Depends on what you’re offering.” Nico grabs at his popped shirt collars, pulling him in for a heated kiss. He winces at the clatter as all five of Benoit’s racquets scatter across the floor, but then Benoit bites at his lip, and all thoughts are forgotten as he growls and leads the younger man to the bed.

 

Benoit rides him, head thrown back and muttering incoherent phrases. Nico grunts as he is buried all the way in the other man, and digs his fingers into Benoit’s thighs hard enough to bruise. Benoit groans, increasing the pace until it’s almost unbearable for Nico.

 

Nico always wears a condom, no matter how often Benoit insists that he’s clean and that Nico’s too anal (his words, not Nico’s) to have anything, and he pants as he spills inside Benoit, Benoit’s nails leaving stinging scratches down his chest.

 

He ends up regripping Benoit’s racquets, anyway, even if it gets delayed to on the practice court. He stares at the even white stripes, and feels something in his stomach settle. Benoit, sitting next to him, slings an arm across his shoulder casually, and, checking to make sure the camera isn’t on them, presses a scratchy kiss on his cheek.

 

“Thanks, love.” Nico can feel him laugh. “We should do that again sometime.”

 

Nico rolls his eyes, but his mouth quirks up against his own wishes. “Maybe when you learn how to put grips on your own racquets.” He stands up before Benoit can respond, and presses the racquet into his hand. “Come on, mon chou, how are you going to be the hero of Davis Cup when you won’t even practice?”

 

Later, in the locker room, Nico kisses an ecstatic Benoit in front of everyone, and feels the buzzing in his head quiet down a little.

 

———

 

Him and Pierre are...complicated. Their paths have begun to branch off further and further as time goes on. Nico’s getting used to playing with Julien, Édouard, even Adrian, as he watches Pierre in the same tournament, but not with him, or skipping tournaments to lose first rounds at challengers. Julia’s with him more often than Nico ever is, and so he cherishes every second that he gets to spend with him off-court.

 

Nico doesn’t think that Pierre quite understands the things that Nico does, not that Nico’s ever told him. He’ll throw his phone on the table at pressers and let Nico arrange them while he answers questions, but Nico hurts a little when Pierre laughs at how he needs his toothbrush in one specific corner of the bathroom sink. Regardless, when Nico looks at him, he’s overcome with a sense of helpless infatuation, and he often can’t help himself but to pull the younger man into his arms and press a kiss into his curls.

 

He especially can’t help himself as Pierre limps into their shared room, face grey with pain. He gently wraps an arm around him, and helps him onto the bed carefully. “I’m so sorry, mon beau.” He slips under the covers next to him, breathing in the scent of his shampoo.

 

Pierre turns his head, meeting his lips softly. “It’s alright,” He says, even though he doesn’t sound like it is. “Let’s just sleep.”

 

The call comes that night.

 

———

 

“I...” Nico’s fully awake now, though panic blurs his vision. “When?”

 

Julien stays quiet on the line for a moment. “I’ll play through this US, then I’m done.”

 

“Done?” Nico can’t hide the tremor of fear in his voice. “With...”

 

“Nico...” A staticky sigh comes through. “I love you.”

 

Nico feels cold tendrils of dread wrap around his heart. “But?”

 

“Nico.” Julien says firmly. “Nico. I love you, but it’s time for me to retire. I will always be here for you, but I can’t stay on tour anymore.”

 

He has to swallow around the lump in his throat. “Pierre’s injured.”

 

“....Oh.” Julien sounds hesitant. “And Yannick will call me...for Davis.”

 

“With me, probably.” Nico says, gnawing at a nail.

 

Julien sighs again. “Okay. One more time, yeah? For old times’ sake. And then I get at least a couple months off before you put my name on your fuck calendar again, yeah?”

 

“It’s not a fuck calendar.” Nico retorts, feeling something in his chest loosen as he breaks out into a teary smile. Julien’s known him since before the diagnosis, and he understands it the best out of anyone Nico knows. Still, it doesn’t stop him from cracking jokes about Nico’s “fuck calendar” at any possible moment. “And I’ll give you as much time as you need. Just let me know.”

 

“Nico.” Julien says, quieter than before. “I’m being serious. If you ever need me, just give me a call, and I will get my ass on the first flight to Afghanistan or wherever you happen to be. I don’t care if it’s two days or two decades into my retirement. And yes, I’m assuming you’re still going to be playing two decades into my retirement, because you’re you.”

 

They both wisely ignore how Nico’s snort is a little wet. “Okay, mon cœur. One last time.”

 

Nico replaces his phone exactly where it was before, adjusts it so it’s parallel with the base of the lamp, then slides back under the covers and breathes in Pierre’s scent, softened with sleep.

 

Things are not okay, but Nico thinks maybe they will be.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m sorry it’s so angsty and gross and has no plot whatsoever :/// i’m just asindjdsd about maherbert and my loving almost-retired gay dads julien and nico rn so ^^;
> 
> please comment any thoughts you have! i welcome all con-crit and keyboard smashes :)


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